40

the news reads that the popular kid's show "Sesame Street" will be 40 or is 40 or has been 40 for some time. 40, that is a grown up age. It doesn't bother me because I have been 40 for quite some time. Where the problem lies is 40 years ago I first heard my daughter sing the blue note in the Sesame Street song, and I realized that she would have talent. I lost both of my kids to my late wife's family. They came back into my life in bits and pieces but then my son got his hands on some of the adoption papers; ones which made me out to be a bad parent. Well duh, if I had been I good parent, I wouldn't have let them go now, would I? I wanted things to work out but I could not fit in. My daughter invited me to her wedding and then let me twist in the wind. I left early. My son didn't bother. The point of this exercise is to let you know that you can be hated forever for no real reason. I did not abuse my children or anything else my son thinks he has read in a one sided investigation that was not for him to see. So my girl is 40. Some of the characters on Sesame St. have died. I'm 62 and have a couple of incurable maladies and a few I can manage. My children have made it plain that they don't care how ill I may be, so I don't count on seeing them again. I guess this is just my admission that I will end up as nothing. I have seen this happen before, but the victims seemed to deserve it more. That's the bug, maybe I do deserve to die forgotten and I just can't see it. It is scary that's all I can say. I hate to bring anyone down, but that's the way it goes
T. Texino

Bill Monroe

Hi it's Texino, and it has been a while since I spoke about my nemesis on
the hard court, Mr. William S. Monroe. Now I've never made it plain how
"Bill" became such a lion with the round ball because I don't know, but he
surely was and I battled him many a time in the school yards and gymnasiums
half way around this world. I couldn't beat him either. Oh I might score
more points, but then he would call the game a draw cause he had to go play
his mandolin some place. I'm sure most people here know that Mr. Monroe was in a band and they played professionally. Well you can read about that in books, but this tells another side to the man.

There are some who say that Monroe would take advantage of a situation just
to come out on top. I'll just say he was clever and leave it there. Last
time I shot hoops with Bill was outside the Station Inn. I was there with
two gals and like most nights back then I was a bit the worse for drink.
Well Bill had showed up with a beautiful young woman in tow. Right when I
got there he was climbing up on the stage and I could tell from his
countenance that he was going to rip into a real barn burner. Then he seen
me and suddenly he got all droopy looking and sang two slow songs about
being an old man in misery and all that. Then he sits down and looks over
to me like he just noticed that I'm in the audience. He nods his head and I
nod back and he gives me this "you and me outside" sign. Well, like I said
I'm about drunk and I figure if he wants to fight what the hell? I'm a
trained boxer, but then, I'm not stupid so I decide I'll back out some way
because pounding a legend of country music in a nashville parking lot won't
look good on my resume'.

So I follow him outside and he's gone over the the rear end of some big car.
He pokes at something and suddenly the whole rear opens up and a regulation
basket ball hoop unfolds. I stand there with my mouth open an the next
thing I known Bill whips one of those old style ABA balls at me. You know
the ones that are red white and blue. "One on one" he says, "let's go cause
I got a date." I'm stating to clear up and tap the ball back to him.
Bill makes a move to cut around so I try to knock his hat off. No good,
some kind of hat cement I reckon. He had all the tricks common to KY
Basketball: Boot lifters, knee springers, finger extensions, slippery Rayon
suit; I think I mentioned hat cement already. It's not cheating; it's just
the way hillbillies play ball.

We run around that dusty parking lot with him charging from the shadows and
into the sodium lights like some great spectacular bird just beating the
nightlights out of me till I had enough and when he come by for a layup I
grabed his legs and jumped with him. That jump raised old Bill so tall that
he got his hat jammed in the hoop and with the super cement he had employed
and there he stayed. Well I dropped to the ground but I must of tripped a
wire or something because the whole hoop device swollowed back up in that
big ride taking Bill Monroe, the daddy of BG with it. I had sobered up a
good bit as a hard session of one on one B-Ball has that effect, plus my
thoughts were starting to form a man slaughter defense, when I hear old Bill
raging from the inside the trunk of that vehicle.

Now, if you ever been to the emergency room of a hospital you probably
notice that there are a lot of foreign physicians at work and you might get
the idea that everyone from Central America is an MD. Well you would be
about right because medicine is a core subject in our schools from the 3rd
grade through 12th and by the time you get out of high school you can go
right into med school if you want. Not everyone does of course but lots do
because it's a good way to earn extra $. In fact, I'm a doctor but I have
not practiced since 2000. The point I make is from the noise that Mr.
Monroe is making, I know that his airway is not compromised and from what he
is saying I deduce he is just stuck by his hat and not in any real danger.
So I go back in side an I see Bill's date has got his keys. She looks ar me,
taking in my dirty disheveled appearance and says "Stuck in the hoop again?"
I nod and say "in the car too". She says, "Can you hear him callin"? I say
yes and she points out that my dates have left me. Then she says "You might
want to be somewhere down the road when I let him out." I say OK and she
gives me a telephone # to call if I need help. I notice it's my number but I
just say thanks and walk out.
Texino
Talking about Bill
Lyons CO

Hi it's Texino, and it has been a while since I spoke about my nemesis on
the hard court, Mr. William S. Monroe. Now I've never made it plain how
"Bill" became such a lion with the round ball because I don't know, but he
surely was and I battled him many a time in the school yards and gymnasiums half way around this world. I couldn't beat him either. Oh I might score more points, but then he would call the game a draw cause he had to go play his mandolin some place. I'm sure most people here know that Mr. Monroe was in a band and they played professionally. Well you can read about that in books, but this tells another side to the man.

There are some who say that Monroe would take advantage of a situation just
to come out on top. I'll just say he was clever and leave it there. Last
time I shot hoops with Bill was outside the Station Inn. I was there with
two gals and like most nights back then I was a bit the worse for drink.
Well Bill had showed up with a beautiful young woman in tow. Right when I
got there he was climbing up on the stage and I could tell from his
countenance that he was going to rip into a real barn burner. Then he seen
me and suddenly he got all droopy looking and sang two slow songs about
being an old man in misery and all that. Then he sits down and looks over
to me like he just noticed that I'm in the audience. He nods his head and I
nod back and he gives me this "you and me outside" sign. Well, like I said
I'm about drunk and I figure if he wants to fight what the hell? I'm a
trained boxer, but then, I'm not stupid so I decide I'll back out some way
because pounding a legend of country music in a nashville parking lot won't
look good on my resume'.

So I follow him outside and he's gone over the the rear end of some big car.
He pokes at something and suddenly the whole rear opens up and a regulation
basket ball hoop unfolds. I stand there with my mouth open an the next
thing I known Bill whips one of those old style ABA balls at me. You know
the ones that are red white and blue. "One on one" he says, "let's go cause
I got a date." I'm stating to clear up and tap the ball back to him.
Bill makes a move to cut around so I try to knock his hat off. No good,
some kind of hat cement I reckon. He had all the tricks common to KY
Basketball: Boot lifters, knee springers, finger extensions, slippery Rayon
suit; I think I mentioned hat cement already. It's not cheating; it's just
the way hillbillies play ball.

We run around that dusty parking lot with him charging from the shadows and
into the sodium lights like some great spectacular bird just beating the
nightlights out of me till I had enough and when he come by for a layup I
grabed his legs and jumped with him. That jump raised old Bill so tall that
he got his hat jammed in the hoop and with the super cement he had employed
and there he stayed. Well I dropped to the ground but I must of tripped a
wire or something because the whole hoop device swollowed back up in that
big ride taking Bill Monroe, the daddy of BG with it. I had sobered up a
good bit as a hard session of one on one B-Ball has that effect, plus my
thoughts were starting to form a man slaughter defense, when I hear old Bill
raging from the inside the trunk of that vehicle.

Now, if you ever been to the emergency room of a hospital you probably
notice that there are a lot of foreign physicians at work and you might get
the idea that everyone from Central America is an MD. Well you would be
about right because medicine is a core subject in our schools from the 3rd
grade through 12th and by the time you get out of high school you can go
right into med school if you want. Not everyone does of course but lots do
because it's a good way to earn extra $. In fact, I'm a doctor but I have
not practiced since 2000. The point I make is from the noise that Mr.
Monroe is making, I know that his airway is not compromised and from what he is saying, I deduce he is just stuck by his hat and not in any real danger.
So I go back in side an I see Bill's date has got his keys. She looks at me,
taking in my dirty disheveled appearance and says "Stuck in the hoop again?"
I nod and say "in the car too". She says, "Can you hear him callin"? I say
yes and she points out that my dates have left me. Then she says "You might
want to be somewhere down the road when I let him out." I say OK and she
gives me a telephone # to call if I ever need help. I notice it's my number but I just say thanks and walk out.
Texino
Talking about Bill
Lyons CO

Making Whoopee

Oh Lord. It has been more than a month since I have written and I am fearful that this foul disease is slowly taking me down the road to physical and financial ruin only to leave me as a dead old person or one whose every breath is tied to social welfare. Still, I must preserve a shred of dignity by standing to one hard and fast rule: I will never take anything from the all around entertainment icon, Ms. Whoopi Goldberg of the USA. I admit that nearly every morning I awake with a ill thought directed at MS. Goldberg mostly in conjunction with fellow funny person Billy Crystal, a person whom I also loathe. The only thing saving Crystal from being randomly smashed some night by thugs under my control is his habit of constantly hogging Goldberg's time during comic relief programs by "channeling" some long winded worldly hipster jazz musician who rambles ad nauseam "can you dig it?" "I know you can." The trouble is that Crystals recitations all sound like the stuff or your average Menshe rather than the black person he aims for, and this has to bug Whoopi who, contrary to her bio, is a negro but is not really a Jew.

There is just something about Whoopi G that disqualifies her as a human in my world. For instance there is her recurring character in one of the star trek shows where she plays at being the all knowing bartender at the X-roads of the universe (or something)however; the whole concept is blown to hell by her costume mostly centered around a huge saucer shaped hat that belongs to a future complete with flying cars and vertical cities. I don't know WTF she and Ted Danson had going, unless she was using the relationship as a means to hone her bar tending skills.

Now Texino was a guy who enjoyed a sexual encounter as much as one could. Illness has robbed me some desire but I still simmer for a taste but try as I might, I could not bless the blankets with WG. I know that style Mavin Miss Martha Stewart of CN. may not be the green tea of your taste, I would gladly put that little shiver and smile where it goes without messing up things too much, just enough so she would remember my name in the comfort and safety of her night moves. I am a nice man,

an inconvienient time to die

Mary Travers died. She had blood cancer-a tiresome disease-and on as good a day for living as there is, she died anyway. I can't blame her, but I fault the unstoppable grim tide. Summer's end is a showcase of life and to leave like the smell of last mowing of the hay is to miss the harvest. A time for collecting life and giving prizes for food stuffed in jars and warmth stitched into quilts; a time for death to take a break with his scythe and wait for a day when the streams are choked with ice, the hollows filled with wood smoke and the ground crackles like the distant rattle of bones as the departed is trundled to the perfect cold of the grave. But will he wait up? No. I sit here and write perfect purple vignettes for death to follow and though he will use them all, he never takes a break and seems to delight in cutting the ones I love down like summer grasses, on the most perfect days to live. I'm not trying to stop death, but I would certainly appreciate it if he were to follow the plots I lay down in my dark hours and just stop killing like there was no tomorrow.
You'd think the shade would give a root boy a break. But he don't stop for horses or high waters, so people pack up your good deeds and your sorrows too and keep them close to hand cause you just don't know when that man be stepping around your corner and catching your eye. For truth.

Raj Savage

Well it has been a while since I talked about my favorite Ocean Rower Roz Savage. First I should say that Roz really is my favorite ocean rower and I have a huge amount of respect for her courage. SOMEHOW, however, I have gotten on the Roz supporter bad boy list and I'm not sure why. I mean I've poked her a few times when I felt here writing was getting flat but I have not called her a fraud or in anyway implied she is anything other than someone trying to be the first woman to row the Pacific from East to West (S.F. CA. to OZ) in three stages. The problem arises from Roz picking up a lot of new supporters here in stage two of the row and, of course, a few are vying for top position in getting their comments acknowledged in her daily blog. Now I know a lot more than I need to about Roz and like I said I have little to quibble about. Therefore, it is not helpful that some naysayers, one using the initials T.T, have joined the fray implying that there is some skull duggery afoot in aid of Roz's choice of where to end stage two of the row. It was to be on the Internet friendly and slowly sinking isle of Tuvalu where big plans were being set out to dovetail with Roz's recent induction to the green planet through less plastic society. Well for reasons know only to a few, Roz suddenly cut her comm links, went into a black hole for two days and then re-emerged practically in Tarawa. A closer but less than ideal spot for an Eco-Warrior plus one with a society which, from what I can gather, doesn't hold to the ladies letting loose down the boozer-something that team Roz enjoys after a 3000 mile solo row. (who wouldn't) Anyway this has led to Roz making some impolitic statements concerning some customs which have been held for several Melania by the country which seems to be doing it's best to make her welcome. In a small country, small slips can become big trouble so if some one's 3000 year old ancestor worship doesn't fit with your plan to store your uneaten provisions, it is probably best not to say your not keen on having your supplies eaten by "some one's Aunt Jemima" (referring to the custom of not killing rats) Then there is the constant off handed reference to the polluted lagoon. (sorry we're in the 5Th world here) and lastly, using the old Internet too slow to blog excuse to avoid updating on the valid questions: Why drop communication to the point of shutting down GPS locater; how were you able to go from nowhere to somewhere in a very short time without some help. Also there are pictures of the boat obviously under tow with Roz wearing the clothes she arrived in Tarawa in which would imply that the tow was in force after being met by her crew boat (look at photos at rozsavage.com) Of course, the inference to be drawn is that facing a deadline to be back in the states for an upcoming book tour and all out blitz to "make Roz" acquire the highest celebrity quotient possible, "adjustments were made to end the "row"ASAP. There is a lot of leeway to be given here providing Roz wants to address these talking points quickly and without fuss. I really hope this is done because they are the sort of thing any reporter will grab, while a boring technical brush off will most likely have them getting back to the human element with little or no comment. I hope this happens. As I have said, I had a pretty snide bit to file under "Raj Savage" what with the quips about the natives and their silly (3000 year old) customs. I'm going to lay off however until the vanguard of savage supporters settle out that this TT negative poster is not me. I'll continue to report on the savage story as major items emerge. Texino

Bat shit crazy with loaded guns

Oh what a beautiful morning in the tropics! Then I turn on the mojo wire and read about the latest fool fest surrounding our duly elected President. WTF is with these people who are attacking the man with total hair brained lies? Don't they realize that they can get a guy killed with this loose talk. The history of this country is full or such tragic outcomes. Sometimes, I think it would behoove the citizens of the US to realize that by and large they are here because, at some point in the past their forebears couldn't handle it back home.
Well folks, this is the last stop; no where else to run. So you get a leader who wants to make your worthless life easier for you and what to you do? Do you listen to common sense? Noooo, instead you listen to scrap gossip on the fucking Internet. Let me clue you. If someone broadcast the point that he or she is going to tell the truth, they're not. You got to listen to information and make your informed decisions. Information from informed sources. Sure it may be hard to form you own opinion but that's what we have to do. It's the price of freedom.

Not to worry

I was just reading a history of America in the year 1908 and was inclined to write about it while running a fever. I feel somewhat better today, but I cannot get the writing apparatus in gear. I am hoping that yesterdays struggle did not bend a valve or something. That would be a shame.

King Maddness Rules!

There are no reasons to fly in panic over wars or rumors of wars that are being spread by the yellow press as we speak. John Chinaman can simply cut his cue and grow fond of American names like, Jason, Roy or Huck. Warning, if you lose your gas service do no go into the street to faint like a communist. Simply run a hose to your good neighbor's home
and pipe your own for the few minutes it will take the gaza to be repaired good as new! Commie= coward! So pay no attention to their cries of "torture" Keep your feet on the ground and visit the ball park Roasted Peanuts 5¢! Extra Extra Alice Roosevelt Longworth the daughter of President TR. has given birth to a negro baby! Terrible mistake says TR from Africa. DRs prove Mrs Roosevelt "too small to have carried the child". Meanwhile search continues in the Baltimore area where the large baby had acquired a straight razor and was setting up house in the Harbor district living on blood and mild electricity. Evidently this electric blood diet is going to put the citizens of 1909 far ahead
of our wildest dreams for progress. Meanwhile "Scientists" Nicolo Tesla and Albert Einstein are predicting a vast slow down. Writers HG Wells and Jules Verne go on to write many fanciful stories based on this incident. It would seem Mrs. R was mad. Beware of things to come! Wireless electric aircraft will fly! Negroes will Join Marine Corps. Bad things happen. Marines and White House share blame. Nation enters the years of horror.

I am not getting old

No, my memories are a series of rock hard vignettes where I can hear the music play and revisit the happy out comes of so many foggy afternoons and moon lite nights. The miles I traveled for love are uncounted for they were all for free and not open to the tax man's imagination. It is truly amazing how much I loved certain combinations of sound I was part of, but couldn't stay because my temper.

How an old sofa almost killed live music

Three guys sitting on an old sofa on an album cover and me in Mill Valley in 1968. I saw that picture and felt at home. The record wasn't astounding but there were acoustic guitars and harmonies and that damn picture. The picture was home. A place where pickers came by and played the stuff till all hours. But it wasn't happening in San Francisco in 68. Now the Rowan Brothers would be around but only paying at some small joint at Tam Junction. I kept looking for the stuff, but it was not happening. Dan Hicks? Maybe. But every where I went looking it failed me. I went to the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park to hear The Dead. I will swear to any God you know, I thought they were tuning up for 8-10 minutes before I caught on that it was a jam. Jerry was tuning his low E string way down and the tuning it way up. Experimental as all get out! I must report that the combo was snatching gayly colored balloons from various spots on the stage and sucking the "air" out. Nitrous Oxide was the deal. So you get a band who is not very good and get them all high on laughing gas and turn them loose on a jam. It was a free show. Then comes the famous Jefferson Airplane and they flew right away. Finally, CS&N OK! No it was not. They could not sing live! They tried to sing Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. A long and complex song. It was cold blooded murder. I wanted to go home-home but instead I had to go to Berkeley and work. Driving home that night, I passed The Red Lion in San Rafael and saw a sign saying "Bluegrass". I was about ready to kill the next poser I came across, so I loaded up my gun and walked into the bar and just about run over Little Donna Stoneman! Damn if the whole outfit wasn't there excepting Pop (dead) and Scotty (drinking in Baltimore) But very few patrons, so I called some people who came by and liked it. I felt the better for it too and went back
each night of their gig. I had to leave and go back down Virginia. I drove x-country with my sister in a VA bus and that CS&N followed me all the way. I wanted to holler "I seen these guys a bunch and they cannot do it live" Finally, I was back where I could see and hear bands who could deliver it live and CS&N hired Neil Young a wacky Canadian who could write but fit right in to the new acoustic-electric thing because he could not deliver live. Turned out these guys were total holicks and dopers but people were still going nuts wanting to hear them live no matter that they really sucked and took months to get the vocals down on record that single album bands like the Grass Menagerie could work out life in 5 minutes flat.
What I am getting at folks is bluegrass is music for real people. People who understand the beauty of the clear clean harmony and feel the meshing of the musical gears. The people who play it do not have to be sexy or hip. There are some fairly outright out laws in the game and there have been more in the past.

Today, look at that and King Wilkie, they just gave up posing as a BG band and there are more than a few others who could change their stripes. Then look at someone like Lynwood or Phil
RaymondE or Tom G. You have four different men right there but don't think they would leave the music. I am saying right here Bluegrass in it's true original form is good because the people who made it believed in a simple policy and that was doing the music the way it came. Now I am not saying the new groups can't be good, it is just important perform and record honestly and not fall into the pop scene where naked emperors and empresses strut around in the smug security that the foolish patrons will never have the courage to say "That Sucks" Take your lip synched over hyped shows to vegas.

Now as far as acoustic-rock The Eagles and Emmylou and Graham with a bit of Clarence White put things right, but LA and Nashville have always dealt in the past and they shut SF down while the Grateful Dead hung on to become quiet multi millionairesThree guys sitting on an old sofa on an album cover and me in Mill Valley in 1968. I saw that picture and felt at home. The record wasn't astounding but there were acoustic guitars and harmonies and that damn picture. The picture was home. A place where pickers came by and played the stuff till all hours. But it wasn't happening in San Francisco in 68. Now the Rowan Brothers would be around but only paying at some small joint at Tam Junction. I kept looking for the stuff, but it was not happening. Dan Hicks? Maybe. But every where I went looking it failed me. I went to the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park to hear The Dead. I will swear to any God you know, I thought they were tuning up for 8-10 minutes before I caught on that it was a jam. Jerry was tuning his low E string way down and the tuning it way up. Experimental as all get out! I must report that the combo was snatching gayly colored balloons from various spots on the stage and sucking the "air" out. Nitrous Oxide was the deal. So you get a band who is not very good and get them all high on laughing gas and turn them loose on a jam. It was a free show. Then comes the famous Jefferson Airplane and they flew right away. Finally, CS&N OK! No it was not. They could not sing live! They tried to sing Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. A long and complex song. It was cold blooded murder. I wanted to go home-home but instead I had to go to Berkeley and work. Driving home that night, I passed The Red Lion in San Rafael and saw a sign saying "Bluegrass". I was about ready to kill the next poser I came across, so I loaded up my gun and walked into the bar and just about run over Little Donna Stoneman! Damn if the whole outfit wasn't there excepting Pop (dead) and Scotty (drinking in Baltimore) But very few patrons, so I called some people who came by and liked it. I felt the better for it too and went back
each night of their gig. I had to leave and go back down Virginia. I drove x-country with my sister in a VA bus and that CS&N followed me all the way. I wanted to holler "I seen these guys a bunch and they cannot do it live" Finally, I was back where I could see and hear bands who could deliver it live and CS&N hired Neil Young a wacky Canadian who could write but fit right in to the new acoustic-electric thing because he could not deliver live. Turned out these guys were total holicks and dopers but people were still going nuts wanting to hear them live no matter that they really sucked and took months to get the vocals down on record that single album bands like the Grass Menagerie could work out life in 5 minutes flat.
What I am getting at folks is bluegrass is music for real people. People who understand the beauty of the clear clean harmony and feel the meshing of the musical gears. The people who play it do not have to be sexy or hip. There are some fairly outright out laws in the game and there have been more in the past.

Today, look at that and King Wilkie, they just gave up posing as a BG band and there are more than a few others who could change their stripes. Then look at someone like Lynwood or Phil
RaymondE or Tom G. You have four different men right there but don't think they would leave the music. I am saying right here Bluegrass in it's true original form is good because the people who made it believed in a simple policy and that was doing the music the way it came. Now I am not saying the new groups can't be good, it is just important perform and record honestly and not fall into the pop scene where naked emperors and empresses strut around in the smug security that the foolish patrons will never have the courage to say "That Sucks" Take your lip synched over hyped shows to vegas.

Now as far as acoustic-rock The Eagles and Emmylou and Graham with a bit of Clarence White put things right, but LA and Nashville have always dealt in the past and they shut SF down while the Grateful Dead hung on to become quiet multi millionairesThree guys sitting on an old sofa on an album cover and me in Mill Valley in 1968. I saw that picture and felt at home. The record wasn't astounding but there were acoustic guitars and harmonies and that damn picture. The picture was home. A place where pickers came by and played the stuff till all hours. But it wasn't happening in San Francisco in 68. Now the Rowan Brothers would be around but only paying at some small joint at Tam Junction. I kept looking for the stuff, but it was not happening. Dan Hicks? Maybe. But every where I went looking it failed me. I went to the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park to hear The Dead. I will swear to any God you know, I thought they were tuning up for 8-10 minutes before I caught on that it was a jam. Jerry was tuning his low E string way down and the tuning it way up. Experimental as all get out! I must report that the combo was snatching gayly colored balloons from various spots on the stage and sucking the "air" out. Nitrous Oxide was the deal. So you get a band who is not very good and get them all high on laughing gas and turn them loose on a jam. It was a free show. Then comes the famous Jefferson Airplane and they flew right away. Finally, CS&N OK! No it was not. They could not sing live! They tried to sing Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. A long and complex song. It was cold blooded murder. I wanted to go home-home but instead I had to go to Berkeley and work. Driving home that night, I passed The Red Lion in San Rafael and saw a sign saying "Bluegrass". I was about ready to kill the next poser I came across, so I loaded up my gun and walked into the bar and just about run over Little Donna Stoneman! Damn if the whole outfit wasn't there excepting Pop (dead) and Scotty (drinking in Baltimore) But very few patrons, so I called some people who came by and liked it. I felt the better for it too and went back
each night of their gig. I had to leave and go back down Virginia. I drove x-country with my sister in a VA bus and that CS&N followed me all the way. I wanted to holler "I seen these guys a bunch and they cannot do it live" Finally, I was back where I could see and hear bands who could deliver it live and CS&N hired Neil Young a wacky Canadian who could write but fit right in to the new acoustic-electric thing because he could not deliver live. Turned out these guys were total holicks and dopers but people were still going nuts wanting to hear them live no matter that they really sucked and took months to get the vocals down on record that single album bands like the Grass Menagerie could work out life in 5 minutes flat.
What I am getting at folks is bluegrass is music for real people. People who understand the beauty of the clear clean harmony and feel the meshing of the musical gears. The people who play it do not have to be sexy or hip. There are some fairly outright out laws in the game and there have been more in the past.

Today, look at that and King Wilkie, they just gave up posing as a BG band and there are more than a few others who could change their stripes. Then look at someone like Lynwood or Phil
RaymondE or Tom G. You have four different men right there but don't think they would leave the music. I am saying right here Bluegrass in it's true original form is good because the people who made it believed in a simple policy and that was doing the music the way it came. Now I am not saying the new groups can't be good, it is just important perform and record honestly and not fall into the pop scene where naked emperors and empresses strut around in the smug security that the foolish patrons will never have the courage to say "That Sucks" Take your lip synched over hyped shows to vegas.

Now as far as acoustic-rock The Eagles and Emmylou and Graham with a bit of Clarence White put things right, but LA and Nashville have always dealt in the past and they shut SF down while the Grateful Dead hung on to become quiet multi millionaires

This aint right

Now I'll be the first to admit that the old porcupine has not been 100% of late and I did have that spell put me to the hospital. But then today I go to see that neurologist from Hindustan and she puts me on Alzheimer's medicine! Boy that really made my day. I got the early Alzheimer's starter kit which comes with a booklet showing people interacting with their care givers like this is not big event. I read the part about the early disease and it sort of fit. I do have a bit of forgetfulness like I burned up a pan of water on the stove the other day cause it slipped my mine I was going to make noodles. It was a good pan too. Oh well, I remember lots of stuff. I do worry that the personality is fading in my writing. I feel like I'm running down the page with blunt scissors and have lost the sharpness that I need in the depth of my prose. Here, I wrote a story about the mysterious BEKs, The Black Eyed Kids:





Re: Black Eyed Kids

Postby texino on Fri Aug 21, 2009 11:13 pm
I was visiting my Tia Loupe Texino-Ruiz in Baltimore and those kids come wanting some cheese. I told Tia Loupe to get the biggest pistol in the house and sit on the floor. Loupe is "white" but I am a Black man and the children had not seen me. I come round the side of the house stropping a cut throat razor. When I got close, I snapped the strop together like a gun shot, but those two boys played it cool. "We just need some government cheese Mr." one said. "Ask that lady to let us in brother man" (brother man?) I knew it was time for a diagnostic test. Taking a silver dime hung on a red string from around my neck I swung it toward the nearest kid it pointed rod straight at his eyes and began to hum. A spooky green light highlighted the angular bodies of the children as they gathered by Tia Loupe's front door their dark eyes tracking the dime as it slowly traced the figure for infinity with laser-like sharpness. There were several more than I had noticed and still more seemed to be sliding into the light "Aye Loupitta!" I yelled. "It's OK to open up." Tia Loupe fired her Glock 9mm with extended magazine, from a sitting position. "Bang-Bang-Bang" each shot removed bits of the old door and bigger pieces of the nouveau zombie kids. She was firing blind but I was directing the fire by way of the silver dime. The bullets were not killing the zombies per se just making it hard for them to slip away. I would have to finish them off myself. As I surveyed my killing field I noticed the black hate blinders had slipped from their eyes. Now they glowed an evil red and the ones with intact faces were hurling vile curses far away from the gentile voices they had used to try to gain entrance a scant few minutes before. As I stood in that pool of hell I was reminded of my earthly ties by the sounds of sirens approaching from every point. In a flash Produje un pequeño barrilete de nitrato de plata y de combustible diesel, and with a consuming fireball and a muffled blast, the street was swept clean. I had to split because Tomas Texino is a name not unknown to police in major port cities,. I knew Loupe would have things in order and a good alibi if needed. Those people understand zombies and I don't think you will be hearing many BEK stories from that town in the future.

Now the people who I was trying to entertain with that story had a lot more interest in BEKs than you probably have so they seemed to like it. Still when I talk about depth of prose I mean like, If you got killed by a bear, for instance, you'd want him to have a nice coat of fur and good sharp teeth, right? I mean a mangy jackass could kill you with a well placed kick, and I'm not saying that couldn't make a decent story. I'm just saying if you are dead and they stuffed the animal that did you, you would get more props for a big shiny 10' tall brown bear that you would a scrawny donkey. I really should not have used the donkey the construct that simile because getting killed by a donkey has a lot of plot potential while a bear just walk up and eat you. See my brains working here, but I'll just forget important stuff sometimes. I reckon it's difficult to pin down some of these diseases and maybe the doc is just giving me a month tryout of Alzheimer's medicine to see what it does. She increased my Parkinson's as well. Maye I'm a bit more frightened than I realize. I've worked with all kinds of sick people and I've seen the absent minded Alzheimer's patient and the shaky PD person, but I've also seen the stark terror that occurs when a person has no memory and is eternally lost to life-they simply do not know what it is. People at that stage are medicated rather severely, but woe be it to one who happens by when that medicine gives pause and sends the person into unending tunnel of panic. The brain is dying you see and it takes a good long time before it gets around to shutting down the rest of the machine we call the miracle of life.

The Silent Drum

I wrote about a young man who died. Today they had a service over at the big church. It was religious and it was musical. People told stories; Old people held it together while the younger folks broke down a little bit. I really don't know about the honesty there, but as grownups we have had to hurt people in more serious ways than the younger group, so maybe we pack our sorrows like a concealed weapon and go shoot them off in private. When the service concluded, the coffin was wheeled out. It no longer had it's white and gold drape; in stead it now law covered in the flag of the land. It is a good flag for happiness and a proud flag for a fight. I think most people in this country like it. At each end of the coffin stood a special soldier. A man and a woman dressed in the dress blues one rarely sees. Alex the boy who died had been a member of a famous Army unit, the ones who guard the unknown war dead at Arlington, VA and conduct burials in that famous place. Now with quiet precision they were doing it far away.
We stood in the street, suddenly 7 rifles spit the silence 3 times and a bugle played taps. The soldiers at the casket saluted and soon an elegant officer marched into the tableau.
Then to the sound of a silent drum the men and women went to work. They folded the flag to a perfect rhythm-beats and rests both. Once folded the woman took the perfect triangle and rotated it softly with her snow white gloves to the silent drum beat. She handed it to the officer, a perfect Black Man born with no smile but eyes of such deep compassion that when he handed the flag to Alex's mother it was as touching as a mother receiving her new born son. In a way, she was receiving her son because as she took the flag more perfect troops appeared and with not a nod or a wink, just the perfect beat of the silent drum the marched the casket into a waiting hearse and then simply disappeared, leaving the civilian funeral corps to handle the shell that was once someone I knew. A kid who's spirit will fly between that flag and the beat of the drum the dead can hear so well.

When a long time becomes a short life

A young man died yesterday. He drowned in the sea. That's all I know about that for now. I did however know this man all his life, A bit less than thirty years. That's a good number of years, but now in death it springs back upon it self and the young man is suddenly a boy who has not lived long enough at all. We as a specie are not designed to out live our children. When times are tough we do not turn them away or eat them so we can try again when spring comes. No we care and teach and if we do well enough, they will return in the coldest winter and calm the fears of dreadful loneliness that waits. I really can't say much more other than that I am more than sorry, more than sad and the rock solid understanding that things like this will happen with or without our attention does not help me one bit.

How Sweet it is

There, I remembered the title. I say that with some pride having been in hospital since we last spoke and am wondering if I have lost my channel with "the Great One" but wait! We are still standing in the Bowery while Gleason rocks back and forth like he needs to pee. It doesn't surprise me when he steps out of the light for a bit and returns seemingly lighter on his feet. Lots of talk about big men being light on their feet. This may be factual but it doesn't mean they will be light on yours, so take a tip from Texino and watch your dogs if you ever help a big drunk up the stairs. Speaking of the sauce that was what was getting to Jackie. He was doing his night club shows and then boozing it up all night at the hotel. Well the only thing I could think to do was suggest he head on out to the coast and get into the pictures. I got him a gig with Bogart and Lorre in "All through the Night" Old Peter Lorre was always good luck for a fat guy in the flickers.
Well things worked out for Jack. He got into TV and using some Busby Berkley routines with The June Taylor Dancers and the Honey Mooners skits, he did OK. Did a lot for Miami along the way as well. When you think of it, things turned out alright for a guy who got kicked out of The Stork Club and ran into some Ju Ju man taking a stroll in time.

pumps

Was I talking about soft shoes? Yeah it was the slap of white man shoes and a sound that touched my heart. Well, hell I can open my eyes even if it's just some kind of dream and so that's the deal and when the hand is called I'm staring at Jackie Gleason in a dinner jacket and those patent leather pumps that go with the getup. Jackie is done to the nines but somehow he's got that missed the bus look even though he probably cabbed it. Now I need to square something and that is the fact that people show up and tell me troubles. I can be just laying back in the bed or walking in Lower Manhattan, it doesn't matter, because of a sudden I will be faced with some Clark with a problem that only Texino can square. It's Voo Doo that I caught in my jungle youth. There can be no question at all. So I have to break the hold on the connection and ring everything into time corrected. Sounds complex but I just say "Hello Mr Gleason, how may I help you?" and he says "So you know me fella?" Now this is a quandary because formal attire is pretty timeless from the 30s on up, so I don't have a clue to the date and time I've strolled into. That's the trouble with leading a rich fantasy life one minute you are cooking along and the next your index finger's jammed in the parrot's beak of real life, your reflection lost in a jaundiced eye. WTF? "Er I read the papers" I tell Gleason and it seems to be enough information for a chance encounter.
Next: "How Sweet it is!" Will Texino be able to steer Gleason away from failure and into The Pictures? Tune in and see.

Damnest thing about shoes

I was walking around South of Houston late last night, that's what they call SoHo ,and it used to be a pretty dumpy area til Yuppies pumped it up. I guess the got tired of living up town because then they made up TriBeCa and that means Triangle Below Canal St. It's what you call a Syllabic Combination, instead of an acronym. It doesn't matter of course because new real estate enclaves explode all over the Burroughs of NYC about as quickly as that evil fresh water Zebra Mussel does what it does to get in the papers. Hell people live up in Harlem and Brooklyn has nice parts. But I wander lower Manhattan because that's where a lot of cool stuff has hit the table since I landed there from jungle Panama in 1947. Like last night, I'm walking near Canal St. setting up a tune and I heard Stevie Wonder blowing "This Could be that start of something good!" on his harmonica. It was Stevland alright and uptight, but he's blowing down some alleyway where I know right off it's not safe to see unless you are a blind man or a hungry dog. I stand there in my thoughts and think about Gary Davis and Rassann Roland and Stevie playing up a number when I hear some white man shoes slapping my way. You can tell a white man walking from the dull rhythm he lays down; It goes slap slap slap slap no brush, no taps and very few cops wear leather soles besides a uniform cop makes more noise than a ball game, with his snarking radio and billy bat and all that harness hitting his gut. Cop's are pockets full of worry so walking on is the smart move. Just walking on. But the shoes are pacing me from behind and suddenly they give a final step that echos in my head like an emerald egg hitting a shallow tin plate full of red tomato soup; a sound I'll not likely hear again but it pierces all the convolutions of unmade and old memories alike and lodges there like a mother's sweet voice or a wise dog's command to kill.
Then I'm back in TriBeCa. This may take a bit to explain: (TO BE CONTINUED IF YOU LIKE) but it's a personal story although Ill attempt to stay on the rosy lane.

Nurtzes

When I first started as a medic for the FD, the ED was typified by "The Big Nurse". Think Julie London on the TV show Emergency, but maybe not so intelligent and more concerned with keeping her power than helping anyone out. I remember working with this one old coot who believed everyone was out to get pain meds. OK. many people are, but when a man comes in with a distended bladder and a urologist tells the nurse to give him 50 Demerol and 25 visteril because he is going to dilate the ureter with a file-a-form set (little probes that screw onto bigger probes) I was assisting the Doc and I knew the guy had not gotten his shot. The Doc did not know it, so he comes in and says all ready? Then he starts ramming these things up the mans penis and the guy just about levitates off the bed. Doc asks me, when he got the injection and I say it's not charted here. Well the Doc goes nuts and finds the nurse who makes up some story about not getting the order. I got to tell you, in all my years I came as close to passing out from psychogenic shock when he screwed the first filo-form prob in and the patient hit the ceiling. Anyway, the guy got the shot and the procedure went well. He voided copious amounts of urine and felt better really fast. I was a part-time EMT/ ER Tech and at the bottom of the pile. It wasn't my job to push the head nurse . I did do some investigation and found out that the patient had told the head nurse that he needed Demerol. Big mistake because. NO ONE EVER TELLS THE BIG NURSE WHAT'S GOING TO GO DOWN. Her chain of action revolves around her and no one else.
These days the head of the emergency department in a large hospital tends to act a lot nicer than Nurse Ratchet and delegates his or her responsibilities in a team effort. Also, I see a lot of nursing friends going into NP. and PA. roles. Still there is a great need for the solid caring RN who can take the punches from the families who use your department as a family clinic and the patient who comes in by EMS with general malaise and suddenly is surrounded be same 40 family members who could not drive the the patient in due to the fact there was no gas. It really is hard to take proper care of people when you know that you are being scammed from every corner, but they are out there and they do it day in and night out. I send big props out to Nurse Barry and the rest of the gang; Julie, Donna, Jay, Glen, David and so many others who used to come out to hear the band and let off some steam. You guys know what you do and how special you are. Give yourselves a kiss or take a pill or have a bit of whatever makes you a little crazy. Tell the judge I said it was OK.

A can of worms

I guess the analogy is pretty much apparent ( a can of worms presents tangled situatation) You cab buy these ews wifflerler

Can of Worms

Cronkite

I ought to write a book about you

That would be you, the people in the USA. How come? Well, I've spent a lot of time studying you at your worst, so I can predict pretty much what will happen when you are confronted with some sort of difficulty. Give you an example? Sure. OK, lets say you are a woman around 22 years old and you have had too much to drink, so you start some shit with your boyfriend while you are leaving
a bar. Now say the BF is too calm, so you decide to show him (and everyone else) by tossing your self from the car while it's still driving slowly around the parking lot. Someone will call an ambulance. When the ambulance gets there, a bunch of drunken women will have gathered around and will be crying hysterically about how much they love you while you lie on the ground like a fish and refuse to answer any one's questions. That's OK because the girls who are crowded around will give all sorts of answers and instructions to the EMS crew who, by this time, will be wishing the car had run over your head and created an interesting case. Now depending on how your Boyfriend is reacting you may cooperate or continue to act like a spoiled child which is a part all drunk people play to perfection regardless of age. I will say that I have seen a few cases where people fell from a speeding car and each one resulted in death or extreme injury. The also either occurred by accident or in one case, a suicidal mental patient managed to get out of a very small window of a van which was transporting her to a serious mental facility. She didn't say so long to the two attendants who were riding up front, so it took them a few minutes to notice. I will just say that the suicidal patient was successful and the mental health transport company was in trouble deep. So there. I'll say that some of you are incredibly brave while others lose it in a second. I've tried to learn by example, but I've noticed that just about every one will fight to stay alive and the tough old coot who says "When my time comes, it comes" will be the first to call when early heart failure comes on. So yeah, I have you number but the fact of the matter is enough of you fit your stereotype that I could write it all down true as tuna fish and no one would print a word. That's too bad because while everyone gets the same illness and injury there are specific scams to the system which are perpetrated by various groups of people, rich and poor alike. I watched it for 30 years and it got to where you could pretty much figure on the rap you would get when the patient was not really sick to the point of needing a mobile ICU to carry their butt to the ER. All they have to do is politely request transport and they will get it, but that never seems to cross any one's mind. Maybe I'll make a list of common excuses given for nonsense calls and let you make your own decisions. Later with that. Cheers and Sorrows...TT

Humpty Dumpty and Me

I don't exactly remember what made Humpty Dumpty so important that all any one's horses and men would try to reassemble the grouchy egg after he fell from his wall. There are many lessons packed into that verse the main one being no one can last when fate takes hold of the situation; another-more obscure- being to make an omelet you must break some eggs. I do know that the verse was originally a riddle with "Humpty Dumpty" being slang for a rather short and clumsy person. So the rhyme is read and the riddle is, who then is Humpty? The answer is of course an egg since your average clumsy clod would probably manage a wall fall without being broken to bits. I guess my ideas about Humpty's attitude come from Louis Carrol where Alice meets up with the egg in "Through the Looking Glass" and he leads her though a semantic work out which is a real mix up as is just about every thing else in that work and were it not,IMO, for Alice's British up bringing, she would have been driven mad PDQ. Anyway, the whole purpose of this jumble is allow me to state that I fell down and got a concussion, and while I seem to be able to recall some things, I'm totally blank on some others. I have had a concussion before, several in fact, but they were the results daring do while this one was pure old guy falls over. I don't like it one damn bit. I am also sorry for writing a post called F*** It! because there is a certain nice lady on the BG-l who reads what I write and I had no reason to title that post other than I was feeling sorry for my self and not thinking about people who go through life without resorting to casual profanity. Enough on that. I'm going to bed until I am better in the head.

Like Mike

You have probably heard by now that Michael Jackson has died. I have a few words to say about it. What, you may ask, could a one man judge and jury like Texino possibly add to the wave of feedback generated by the passing of the self styled King of Pop? There are, after all, hundreds of writers covering every inch of the story in search of horrid detail. Well, as it turns out, I am uniquely qualified for this assignment. Why? On the one hand, I have studied emergency cardiac care for nearly 30 years both as an instructor and care giver in the field and on the other I suffer from chronic pain due to a series of lower back injuries going back to Vietnam and culminating with my work with the fire/rescue service. Unlike Jackson, however, I control the pain with RX Methadone tablets which, while relieving the pain, do not give any sort or euphoric feeling such as produced by other narcotic analgesics i.e.
Demerol, Morphine or Oxycontin. I have tried the other drugs and found that I quickly became addicted to Oxycontin and Codeine. It was hard to stop using those pills because not only was I getting them from my doctor, but found that I needed to get them on the street as well which was very expensive. My situation is much better now and though I am sure that my use of the methadone has become an addiction it controls the pain without making me high. So from a drug users standpoint, I would say that MJ was hooked up with a tame Doc who would keep him feeling up by injecting Demerol as needed.

Now the heart attack scenario. Sudden cardiac death is not uncommon in seemingly healthy males over 50 yrs. I went to the hospital in 2000 because I had a funny feeling in my neck which went away after I took a nitroglycerin tablet. I was admitted and a test showed my coronary arteries to be extremely occluded with the most important one about 93%. What that meant was I was very close to having a severe and most likely fatal coronary event. This type of myocardial infarction can be fatal even if it happens with a room full of doctors. Bypass surgery is the life saver there. So MJ could have something like that, but it would have been obvious in the autopsy. Since no one has mentioned that, it now becomes possible that Jackson went into cardiac arrest as a result of an overdose of Demerol. Demerol is usually given as a IM injection as an IV shot can cause abrupt CNS depression with the patient becoming unable to breathe for himself. Two scenarios present themselves here. One: The shot was given as an IM and accidentally hit a vein or Two it was given by an IV route too quickly causing respiratory depression leading to cardiac arrest. Now whether it was #1 #2 or a combination of both there is an easy way to reverse the problem and that is with the narcotic antagonist "Narcan" (Naloxone™) This drug given IVP (fast) will completely reverse the effects of the narcotic immediately putting the patient into withdrawal and possible seizures. Never the less, it works and anyone who is treating a patient by injecting narcotics should have a good supply on hand as the half-life on the Narcan is shorter than the narcotic meaning the Narcan may wear off and put the patient back in respiratory arrest. In general the patient can be handled by maintaining respiration until the effects of the drug moderate. When I was on the job, we often did not wake the OD patients up because the reaction to the withdrawal could be dangerous. We just inserted a breathing tube and kept IV access and monitored the heart rate and oxygen saturation.


So here in my opinion is the issue with Mike. He had a Doc with him 24/7 Supposedly a cardiologist and the guy does not seem to have had the necessary
drugs and equipment to manage a cardiac event. If this was the case, then it is an awful over site, but it should be remembered or made clear to the public in general that doctors in private practice are seldom aware of the latest advanced cardiac life support protocol. I have a feeling that the fact Jackson's MD went missing for a while is to figure a way to cover himself for not having the proper set up which may have easily saved Jackson's life.
We will see. It's all cheers and sorrows, Texino

Roz

OK, here are some photos of the photogenic naked row boater Roz Savage. She is a handsome woman and her handler Nicole would like to get her into playboy magazine...? Oh well Roz is still rowing but she is not saying much about where she is headed or when she expects to get there. She spoke quite a bit about that during her last row which made for interesting reading. Oh yes, Roz posted another picture of herself naked today, but you can't see her breasts. OH well, I'm probably not going to write too much more about Roz Savage™ Nicole, is keeping my comments from reaching her, so there is little chance of give and take.
Cheers and sorrows,
Texino

My Pal Roz

You really ought to check out Rozsavage.com and read about the adventures of this intelligent and capable woman who is rowing the Pacific Ocean from San Francisco to Australia with stops at Hawaii, Tuvalu and then AU. it self. Roz has an interesting story to tell about how she left the business world to become an adventuress and now she seems to do rather well giving motivational speeches between rowing. Between rowing is the issue. Roz first rowed the Atlantic in a east to west "race" and it was during this soul stripping experience Roz decided her new career path. She would write a book and give talks. Also, since no woman had solo rowed the Pacific E-W, Roz set about gaining sponsor-ship for such a venture.

Now I should mention that these ocean rows are done in highly specialized craft which are safe as they can be made to be and barring being sliced in two by a liner or falling overboard unattached the rower can expect to survive quite a bit of ill nature.

My issue comes from the rather long interludes between the hops. In fact the way things are working out, while the Atlantic Row was filled with hair raising adventure and the first attempt of the pacific row ended in having to abandon the good boat "Brocade" making the second attempt a dramatic race against the real possibility running out of water and all of us giving Roz the big cheer as she rowed into the Waikiki Yacht club. Now 6 months later step 3 has our gal pulling toward the Internet nation of Tuvalu (.tv) and while the previous two steps have had everything you would want as far as adventure, so far part 3 has been totally a matter of poor Roz's sore bum w/pictures.
OK, now here is a woman hoping to make big change giving speeches to cube dwellers or whomever has to sit through this sort of up lift, and I Texino happen to mention that "metaphorically" this row is falling as flat as the "El Mariachi" trio of films and Roz goes crazy on me. I don't know, maybe she needs to rant about how this is real life, but we are both sitting behind key boards and Roz knows nothing about my years at sea, my wartime service or career as a Fire/Rescue Officer. I figure it's only a matter of time before the her inbred British insults start and I get called a "Dreadful Little Man".

The whole nutcase problem here is I'm just making some points. I'm not trying to demean Roz Savage in any way, I just fear that she has picked up all these newbie followers who are so heavy with the saint paint that she may lose sight of the true southern cross.

Be safe Roz- that has been the tone of my twitter tweets since day one. If she needs a whipping boy to stay strong, I can take anything she snaps up.
Check it out for yourself. T

Fuck it

I don't care if anyone reads this blog or not, so I'm not going to harass my online friends into joining another list. I really hope someone reads me because I think I say some decent words of social commentary and if you listen up you could get ahead of the flow and not worry about idiots making you look unaware. think about it.

So how come I'm still writing?

Well I can't say for certain. I thought that I needed the support of Novelist Mary Moon in order to test my mettle, but I guess that was just an illusion provided by my sponsor- Mr.Insecurity. Now, I'm still a big fan of Mary Moo, I guess I just don't need her help as much as I thought and I suppose I can get by the loss of friendship the same way a person gets over other such disappointments. So it comes down to this. I'm sorry but I am going to continue this blog even though I have no idea if anyone reads it. It is just something I have to do.

You would have thought differently

So The "Grasshopper" ends up doing the ultimate jerk off in a town well known for it's sexual delights and kills himself in the act. I must say this disappoints me because I figured that a guy like David Carradine would have had this sex thing figured out and even at the age of 72 have some sort of Tantric method or special Kung Fu discipline keeping him up, so to speak. But no, instead of surrounding himself with girls and boys Viagra, he goes for some cheap auto erotic asphyxiation trick in a closet no less. Jesus Christ. I mean I've seen people who have hung themselves and it's gross. Snot comes out of your nose in a long string and other messy stuff happens. Also as far as this auto erotic asphyxiation issue goes, it seems a mighty dangerous way of getting off. The least someone could do is make some sort of kit that would allow the project to go forth with some bit of safety in place. I'm not totally hip on the procedure but as an old man who is losing his spark, I might need this at some point and I'd hate to make the ultimate screw up. Like, I already invented an anti overdose syringe that has a secondary dose of naloxone (a narcotic antagonist) that will auto inject if a junkie doesn't disable it within a certain time after he or she shoots up. I guess I should investigate how this deal works so I can invent a safetly device. I'm not sure of it's worth, since my anti OD kit may save lives but since it tends to put the user right into withdrawal, I don't get too many thank you notes. Oh well, it's still sad about old Dave. The guy went about spouting the wisdom of the ages and it comes down to the same old sad Hollywood bullshit.

The tragedy of uptown.

First and then.

the reason I don't write any more

Every writer needs a person who will stand up for them as well as to them. If you don't have that sort of relationship to provide ballast to ease your voyage through the questionable sea of words that can destroy you as easily as allow you to shoot the rapid to keener pools of prose, you will end up painted in some ugly corner of flickering fluorescent tubing. I've lost my anchor. A person whom I thought was chained to me by the gold of friendship turned out to be connected by sacrificial Zinc; an element which leaves in its own time with little notice or evidence of ever being.

who the hell am I?

I'm Texino and I write stories. Sometimes people request my friendship on social networking sites and when I accept, they act like it's a pretty good deal.
I must have made them feel a certain way through my writing. If that is true then I'm doing my job. Other times I write stupid and obvious lies about Bluegrass Players who I consider Grand Falloons. A Grand Falloon is a type of person made up by the humorist Kurt Vonnegut Jr. and it means just what it sounds like. I break a lot of laws and spend more time on the hill that out to sea. It's for the better because I am getting old. Still I want to make another tour. They have taken my major priviledge to drive, but I have a 49 cc motor scooter and if I should pack it wisely and take back roads, I might see some things left to see which will teach me some lessons I have not learned. Like the importance of corn to the economy and if there is any new love to fall into or if I am just a fool for thinking I'm still worth a fuck.

The Poor House

I am aware that I have shown signs of moral bankruptcy in the past but I always managed to pay the dues associated with that itchy plight. Now, I'm faced with a full financial collapse. They simply do not pay Texinos the way they did when we schooled like big tuna with manuscripts fresher than the best grade fish flesh. Oh the price of fuel and the invention of automated long liners. Then you make the mistake of fishing for what would eat your own carcass should you bunk with D. Jones on a perfect stormy night. Once you take that bug money, it is better to go to the hill and buy a house with the wind at your back. And I did that and 30 years of near perfect citizenship brought me in touch with a different breed. Then: Lord did the heavy past en bay me with casual duties and one day I looked up to find 30 thousand squid full and fine and demanding their share of the voyage of my life. What kind of captain doesn't pay off? Well no kind of Captain at all. And then this steady procession of old mates walked off the plank into the fog where, unlike the snowy churchyard not one can answer your whispered question and your loudest calls are swallowed and beaten senseless beneath the billowed blankets.

Ah, what a war!

She make look clean, but she's also forty feet tall! If I was that woman, I'd teach those men to make assumptions about my character. Take that sailor. Swallow him whole and when he tries to climb back up my throat, slug down a double scotch and see how he handles that. Anchors Aweigh Swabby! Hey Mr. Businessman, how's about I check your lungs with a big deep kiss? Heck, he folded up like a piece of cellophane! Say there soldier, let me give you a little love bite on the neck! Oops! his head came right off. So you see while the Armed Services tried to scare men out of having healthy sexual intercourse and catching easily treated diseases, giant Frauliens cruised the east coast killing service men by the score not only in the ways mentoned here but casual use of Zippo Lighters or mistaking the little men for match sticks or ciggarette butts. While the defeat of the giant Axis Alices has been a closely guarded secreat since the second war, great creedence has been given to rumours involving submerine warfare and midnight swims.

It's like the song says-

What song? Doesn't matter. They all get around to it eventually; sadness, loneliness, heart break. The opposite of good. For some reason, perhaps because I am reaching the end of my life, I find my self shuttled into that invisible corner where no one knows you when you are down and out. It's like the song says.

As a tween, I was sent to deportment classes. Learned how fill out a dance card and how to dance it; how to sit and how to walk; how to eat and have all around good manners. I would have benefited more from a course in diesel mechanics. Actually,I did learn quite a few manual trades in the Army but it being wartime everything had a modicum of violence attached to it that did not translate into civilian life i.e. "weld up a box so we can put it on some prisoners head and whack it with sticks." I was playing the bad boy before I went into the service and it was doing me pretty good. When I came back, I really was the bad boy and suddenly no one wanted to know me.

The thing is, I should learn to make friends with a lower class of person. But I don't. Instead, I pal up with the sort of chaps and chicks whom I grew up with. (remember, I know the rules of deportment) and therein lies the rub.
I get exposed as being rough and coarse for real, and that just doesn't do.

So now I am as down and out as is possible. I haven't eaten a full meal in ages
let alone seen a glass of wine. Are dinner parties illegal now? Well of course not, but who would want us at one? (They're broke for God sakes) Me, a poor sport? Well, no. If I had something and you had a need, you would have it. How many computers and instruments and other things have I given away or sold at fractional value just because someone would benefit? People who know me know the answer.

Do I deserve the life I have? Well yes I do. Really. I have the reason written down some place, but if you read it you wouldn't believe it. It's right out of the twilight zone and that tune has no words.

An inconvenient friend

It often seems that the friends I make, the ones who seem ready to love me for the whole go round decide at some point that I am somewhat along the line of a good meal but too hard to get at; like blue crab or something. Think about how tasty those crabs are; then think about the last time you had a mess of them over the house. The shells hurt your hands and the Cayenne gets in the pokes and slices and then the trash doesn't come for days and lessons are taught by the blue tail fly. Don't fret, someones mamma's going to see those maggots on the black trash bags. Then it comes down to the reasonable gathering where Poppa pulls out the years grouper crop and a fish fry is put on.
Good food good company. No mess. No pain. No one to ask the wrong question in this happy group. No, because they all sailed safely through the 60s happy in the knowledge that they were secure and the men they knew were safe and smart and they lit fires on beaches and spoke codes and fattened their futures and worst thing was they forgot, because it didn't mean a thing to any one's plans until it proved an inconvenient mess when a guy like me slipped through and then had the gall to exhibit symptoms of a horror that could not be controlled or over looked. How dare a person behave the part of a separate reality and what were we thinking anyway?
Well the problem is easily solved. Just pretend there was never anything there and it will go away.

A Parting Glass

It's sad to reach an age where something once so large in one's life starts, through a series of sad goodbyes, to implode like a bright star and shrink to a compressed memory, shared now by a few scattered friends.

Fred Foster Davis, F.F. or Filthy Fred as he was universally known; not for lack of hygiene, but for his abiding love for ribald folk song, has died and left a big gap in the circle around the warm fire of friendship. As we slide down the metaphoric pew to fill his now cold seat it seems that each shadow takes on the face of someone too dear to lose.

And how dear was Fred? In '83 and Fred showed up needing to borrow a car to drive to Fernandina in aid of some sort of vehicle exchange over on Cumberland Island. I gave him my yellow Wagoneer, an old veteran but drivable. Fred was back in two days to recruit me to help him tow a Volvo back. I said OK, fine and the day was set. The next morning as we were ready to leave, Fred mentioned that I might find the brakes a bit "tight." He was right, of course, as he had replaced some major components while he had the car. He just did that kind of thing. You borrow a clunker from a friend, find the fluid reservoir a tad low, so you put some fluid in and watch it. Not Fred; he rebuilt the whole system. You know, as a favor for the loan. That was just the kind of guy he was, plus he liked order in machinery . As a life long sailor, he had the ability to make or fix anything. Looking back, I find it hard to think of a time a whirlwind visit from Fred did not result in some repair to the lights, plumbing or car. I'm half certain if he house sat for a month a remodel of some sort would be effected. Really.

Fred died down island in Nevis. He had property there and after losing his wonderful 53' steel hulled ketch,"Curlew" to a hurricane, he had given up life as a charter captain to split his time between the Eastern Shore of VA and the Caribbean.

Our history goes back 35 years and the adventures abound.
In fact the last time I saw Fred, maybe 5 years now, our paths crossed in Beaufort, NC. during a Pirate Festival. It went from a quiet visit with other friends to a highly questionable activity involving reefer, rum and a functional canon. Did not see him again though I figured it was just a matter of time. Now this. Fred leaves a new wife and an ex-wife, Mary. Mary is a story herself and a good friend. The new wife? I did not know about, but I'll wager she has spirit.

So Fred, about to seek treatment for Cancer in Brazil, I'm told, fell to that terrorist of disease while being given oxygen and morphine at the Alexandra Hospital in Nevis and lies buried so far away.

Fred Davis, dead at 65. Too soon for a man so full of work to do and robbed of his days as a elder, sitting some dock yard with stories to amaze the children and a tot of rum near by. But, that is only the future as I saw it. Perhaps he did not look ahead and just lived point to point, like a good navigator.

My friend Dave, another good one, held a pledge with Fred. It was the kind of thing people say, when they really do not consider the truth or consequences of the bargain. The bond was, whomever died first, the survivor would sing "The Parting Glass" at his funeral. It didn't turn out because Dave did not get the news, none of us got it, until yesterday and that was too late. David went home and sang it by himself.

Now if you don't know The Parting Glass, it's a sad Irish tune sung at closing time, and the last part goes: "And if it falls unto my lot, that I should rise and you should not. I'll softly go and gently call, good luck and joy be with you all."

The song is actually about drinking, not dying, but it doesn't take much for it to become an allegory to everything I have been saying here. On that point, I'll shove off in hopes that you will find the "Parting Glass" and hear it for Fred. From there on you will have it to sing to yourself when you are lonely or sad and you might find it of use.

Monkey talk ( Another chapter in a series devoted to the study of animals and their characteristics)

I like to think that I am a friend to all animals, however; the truth is, I have a distrust of both the bear and monkey.

I often think about the initial choices we make regarding our trusts and fears.
I'm talking childhood zen here, the sort of thing that just shouts to your fresh brain that red is candy and sweet potatoes are to be avoided. You make deeper choices as well, like are you a dog or cat person or both, or is your father the sort who would have killed and eaten you if times had been hard. (Bears do this) You are also taking sexual notice at this time. That makes sense as you are the recent product of a sexual union. I grew up in a woman house and the visions of soft curves and pretty feet were early additions to the slide show behind my eyes. I had animal exposure too. Carted to the National Zoo strapped into my stroller like a jet pilot, I was wheeled to within yards of the actual "Smokey The Bear." This was supposed to be a lark but, in fact, it was the product of a horrible domestic misunderstanding. A local TV show for children, which centered around life in the forest, featured a man who played a guitar and sang a song about Smokey the fire prevention bear and how he came to get that job. I loved the guitar but, as I lived in the city, did not really relate to the story,. In fact smokey was represented as a stern creature who wore a drill instructor's hat and admonished in a rumbling robotic voice that "Only YOU can prevent Forest fires" and I just could not figure why it had to be ME since I had other plans for my life. My keepers, on the other hand, insisted that I loved the bear and that's why I was freezing in a stroller watching a scarred bruin watch me. I was wheeled to other sites as well, but to me, the most intimidating was a trip through the monkey house.

Now I knew a bit about Chimps because there were two of them on the television. There was J. Fred Muggs and there was Zippy the chimp. Both of these animals wore clothes. Zippy did tricks and Muggs just sat around and sometimes he smoked a cigar. Chimps like to smoke. I instinctively disliked those monkeys. Sort of like the sweet potato knowledge, or maybe because Zippy The Chimp Dolls of all sizes were in distribution and lay in doctors waiting rooms and on preschool toy shelves. These were horrific in that, while they seemed furry brown and cuddly, they had naked ears and hard rubber faces which totally robbed them of any chance of love. It would be of great interest to analyze a person who actually did become emotionally attached to a zippy doll just to see what sort of person he or she had turned out. Regardless of my predispositions toward chimps, one look at the naked apes in their pseudo environment of sex and violence was enough for the boy and has remained constant into manhood.

I'm here on this monkey business due to the recent story of the face eating Chimp up in New York. Pretty gross indeed, yet because I know my enemy, I can tell you that this sort of destructive attack is not uncommon. In fact, in the last year I read of a couple who had a long standing relationship with a chimpanzee and during a visit to the animal, who was now living in an open environment with other chimps, another chimpanzee attacked the man and ripped his testicles off as well as causing other significant trauma. These villains who go about on "all fours" literally have legs for arms and can tear someone to pieces. I remember a story by the famous Animal expert Frank Buck, who described being temporally blinded by the venom of a spitting cobra. In order to save his eyesight he had to call for help, yet the only telephone was in an office located across the room and to get there, buck had to pass the cages of several chimps. In chilling detail the author described having to crawl in a prone position keeping as close to the floor as possible while the chimps, sensing his injury madly reached for him, there fingers nearly brushing his clothes. Buck escaped, but he made it plain beyond doubt that the terrible chimps would have murdered him in an instant, even though he had treated them with great care and kindness. Chimps. Somewhere down the dusty hall of horrors where the light of my adulthood seldom shines, there is the memory of some long lost kine scope showing Zippy dressed in a doctor's get up, complete with one of those reflectors on his head. In the "gag" he is supposed to be an escaped chimp who has put on the get up. You know how it goes. Patient sees the doctor, the doc says "I'll send in the specialist" Zippy shows up, patient freaks, doctor returns, patient says specialist is a monkey-hilarity ensues. Well OK, but in real life, I think that's pretty screwy and if my doctor ever says, "Ill be right back" I make sure I've got my pants on and I'm ready to bolt. No doubt, chimps are blessed with super speed as are bears. I don't know what the human to chimp + bear ratio is, but I fear it is too high. On an evolutionary scale, I'm supposed to be above a monkey, yet the only product of my superiority that is evident is my ability to get my hands on an Army .45. Well and good, but I'll wager a chimp can shoot a gun too. My advice on that is to do like I do when traveling in chimp territory. I carry a life-like replica of a pistol which I can recognize due to the fact that the tip of the barrel is colored a bright red. If I am challenged by an armed Chimpanzee and can't get the drop on the bastard, I simply pull a bit of the old monkey see-monkey do and placing the "toy" gun in my mouth pretend to pull the trigger. Fair fight? Hell no! Like I said,I get along with animals just fine, but when it comes to ball ripping face eating Chimpanzees, well the tables closed and all bets are off.

The next subject in this series will be, Bears, an abomination before Almighty God!

Let's talk about The Shriners, OK? Fine

You know who the Shriner's are, right? Wear a Fez, drive a little car, have a big parade for no apparent occasion? Those guys. International do-good organization is what they are. The Shriner's, AKA The Masons, are a secret society who have something like 33 degrees of membership. Shriners come from all walks of life, but I am not certain if Black People can join or if they have their own Shrines. (I have seen Black Shriners but not in a mixed group) Because the Masons are a secret order, a lot of mystery surrounds what goes on at the Lodge. Now, I'm not sure how one gets tagged to join up. I don't think being an actual mason is necessary, however; The Masonic orders are big into the compass , square and apron as symbolic artifacts in their rites. The Masons have been about for a real long time and, by the way, George Washington was a Mason and I believe he laid the corner stone of the Capitol. In fact lot of the early big shots in the USA were Masons and they managed to get some of there junk put on the money and it's still there.

Of course, whenever there is a secret society afoot, people are going to want to know what goes on. The Masonic orders can be pretty tight lipped about this and it is alleged that anyone who might do a run and tell all on The Brotherhood would face some pretty substantial grief for his trouble. This must have some degree of truth because a lot of people would be interested in finding out if to get to the highest levels of the "Craft" it is truly necessary that the candidate do such naughty acts as sacrifice a child as well as a bit of rape and cannibalism. I guess, if the brothers have that sort of information on a fellow, he would be loath to tattle.

Personally, I have a hard time believing nice Mr. Fowler down the street (a known Master Mason of high degree) would do any of that nasty business, however; there are two major obstacles which keep my suspicions engaged Viz the Masonic Order. #1 is their affection for Arab paraphernalia and #2 they perform as Clowns in their own circus. Now it is well known that Arabs are often employed in the snatching an ill use of young boys and this is something not unheard of in the Clown Conspiracy either. Therefore, until the Masons come across with some heavy evidence to the contrary I cannot release them from suspicion. OK. I was just thinking about The Masons and that is what came out. My head is stacked full of information, so if you need any, don't Google! Ask Texino!
Bye for now.

Real Time Internet

I just realized that I was able to view the unfolding drama of the US Airways Flight 1549 crash entirely on my laptop and other that watching some streaming video from a NY TV station, did not have to deal with the confounded broadcasters nattering rumor back and forth. It was truly a relief to be able to put the puzzle together by looking at live shots and reading breaking text released by people on the scene rather than having to listen to the baffled newscasters interrupt one another and then speculate as to the situation. I fully realize how difficult it is to handle a breaking story cold and you can really see how hard some veterans work to keep from falling on dead air. That's well and good. I'm just happy to have a high speed connection and the ability to data mine. Equipped to this level, I remain confident that I can get the goods on any story without the distraction you get from the news folk who can turn from serious to light hearted in an eye blink or cut to commercial advertising and miss an important event. I sometimes get annoyed by the web and its wide open spaces of worthless junk, but for someone like myself, who wants information and deep back ground on a regular basis it is true magic of the modern age. Magic that allows me to see the miracles of my own life time, for now that I have struck the gong and entered my time of diminishing seasons it is evident that the last 60 odd years have brought us so much and the fact that I can prove it with a few clicks of a button and then broadcast it to the world in my own words makes me feel like a ripple that will eventually show its power as a new wave. That's cool.

It can't be just me

Anyone out there seen The President recently? G.W. Bush, I mean, and when I mean seen, I mean observed him on the TV. OK? Fine. Now has it occurred to you during your observation that the guy is just sort of, nuts? I'm cheating a bit because I was watching a video montage last night and it showed President G.W. Bush speaking and responding, the general riff that a president does, and truth to my mind kept cycling back to "out of control." Now I know about out of control. I'm always saying the wrong thing and getting people mad when I didn't mean to, but neither do I go around starting wars for no reason, nor do I torture people; at least not in any way they can't escape by deleting my words or turning off my music. Sure, I ran a pig ranch in Vietnam, but I worked with people whose job it was to come up with the desired answers from some of our prospective ranchers. Let me tell you if you want someone to to say no is yes or black is white, it's an easy deal if your contestant has a high % of belief that you are in fact The Guy. Point being, this wholesale brutality as practiced by Secretary of Pain Rumsfeld's army of a few was not necessary. There are just cooler ways to get your info.
You know, I think one major issue with Bush is he is trying to fill in the blanks. Blanks that his Daddy was so great at using to get his points across. I mean if you listen to W trying to explain the whole Mission Accomplished fiasco on the aircraft carrier, it's gibberish. Bush the Elder could have gotten the whole issue covered by saying: "Carrier Landing- bad idea- gave wrong impression- not prudent." I suppose if you take W's words and "Bushellize" them, one might bring his presidency into a whole new light. Worth it? Naw.

TV is unfair to criminals

Well, it is, because almost every single tine I look at a news paper, I read about lawbreakers getting yanked off the street for committing the type of behavior T.V. bad guys pull off each week. Take the hit man, for instance. On TV, you just get Harvey Kitel. In real life you will either be set up by the cops or the Hit Person will sing like a bird if the cops ask him one question. How about your car chase? OK? fine; a guy is really intent on not stopping for the police, so rather than take his plate # and catch up with him later, unless he is on a murder spree or something, the police set up a road block with two cars touching together at a vanishing point. The villain has seen this move on TV 1,000 times. Just speed up and hit the road block dead center and the police cars will just spin out of your way. Right? Well yes, if they have had their motors and transmissions removed. If not, it's a-kin to striking a tree. Why do banks have those velvet ropes to feed you to the next teller? To make sure they get a shot of you with the security camera before you try and rob the place. If you try to get anything more that the loose cash, they will put exploding dye capsules in with the money and since the cops have been hauling their adrenalized butts toward you from the second you showed your hand don't be surprised if they blast you to bits with automatic shotguns as you walk out with a couple of grand. Hardly seems worth it, but hey those old British bikes cost a bundle to keep on the road. Faking your death. Always fails. Killing your wife. You will be the prime suspect from the get go, so you must be a real psycho killer to pull it off. How about safe cracking? Gem Robber? or Art Thief ? Romantic to be sure, but to pull that sort caper successfully you would need talents that would pay you a good wage without resulting to crime. I guess drug dealer can be a only money maker for the average Joe, and once you get up into the big money the chances that someone might burn you are just too great. Old Texino's been in the slammer a couple of times and I would not care to go back for any reason cause life is too short and you don't want to end up with a five or six year hole in yours. Well I started out to make fun of TV and ended up being a moralist. You can't know what I might do these days. I take my pills, but I have hallucinations. People walk through the room. I find myself getting up to do a task that has to do with an imaginary situation, plus all manner of medical stuff keeps popping up to try and scare me. I have now out lived any man in my family by 5 years. Does that make me a wiser person than my father or the Two grandfathers whose pictures look like extremely old gents who could have only lived in the Black & White days of noir. I'll be damed if I ever come up with that answer, however; the fact that those gentlemen share degrees from Harvard, M.I.T. and the U.S. Naval Academy and I have been but a common ambulance driver should hint strongly in some direction. Well that ought to get it Take good care of your tools. Texino 1/09